Wine of the Elast

I am awake. The Marin Hills
doze beneath their August fug
cool in the shadow of bay.
The bocce court is silent,
the jury out on the banked
steps that rise from C Street.
The Cabernet rubs its plummy nose
into my corners, sparks this
pulse of light, of gratitude,
abloom like the tea roses of
Raphael, archangel of the trumpet,
healer, painter, vintner. Ages
and names and uses. Sobering.
Everything is ablaze in me.
Love. Loss. Gain. Going
forward into the unfolding
Mystery of Being. Its spark
an excruciating beauty
in the dark.